


The Stars Who Listen

by FictionPenned



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alex asked why we even have this lever, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/F, Slow Burn, Thrissy, designed to be accessible to dw fans who haven't read acotar, for your convenience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24241138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: For a moment, Thete is tempted to open the window and allow the paper bird to fly back to wherever it first originated, but the idea dies almost immediately. The rain would destroy it before it made it past the edge of the palace grounds. Besides, even if the weather did suddenly decide to be kind, she has no way of knowing how such a gesture might be interpreted within the Night Court. Perhaps it would be perceived as a flirtation or an act of war or both at once — neither of which she is prepared to deal with. In a war against the Night Court, the already fragile Dawn Court would be crushed, and Thete has little interest in flirtations of any sort.The Thirteenth Doctor and Missy are rulers of rival Faerie Courts and embark on enemies-to-lovers slowburn full of court intrigue and faerie bargains. Designed to be accessible even if you are not familiar with ACOTAR.
Relationships: The Doctor/Missy (Doctor Who), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/Missy
Comments: 28
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

Rain beats against the tempered glass of the study windows — tracing beveled edges and leaded channels in search of a way inside. The storm has been raging for years. So long, in fact, that Thete has nearly forgotten what it sounds like to hear birdsong on a sunny day or the quiet whisper of the breeze on a cloud-speckled night. There is only the endless roar of wind and the incessant pounding of the pouring rain. She longs to rise one morning and gaze out upon one of the glorious dawns for which her court is named, but such an idea seems increasingly far-fetched of late. 

Were she one of the older High Lords in Prythian, with enemies and mistakes and personal grudges, she might have chalked it up to a curse, but she is still young. She hasn't had the _time_ to antagonize anybody that badly, and besides, her title was not even intended to be hers in first place. No one could have anticipated that she would be in this position: The High Lord of the failing Dawn Court.

There are seven courts of Prythian — three solar and four seasonal — each occupying their own territory and each with their own High Lord to rule over them. It is an inherited title wrapped in magic, meant to pass to the High Lord’s strongest male offspring. Thete never thought it would fall to her. After all, technically speaking, she ticked none of the boxes. She butted up against her family’s values and ideas of tradition, and left the court in a fit of impassioned rage when she was barely more than a child by Fae standards. She spent over a century flitting among the mortals south of the Wall that divides the faeries from the mortal lands, learning human ways and offering them small graces with what magic she naturally possessed, intending to never return.

In the mortal realm, she was free to be herself. With her magic, she changed her face, she altered her body, she rewrote her name. Outside of the strict requirements of tradition and the demands of a culture that valued sons over daughters, she was no longer pressured to maintain ties to an identity that never truly suited her. For a while, she was really, truly happy.

But while she was gone, the world fell to ruin. A nightmare queen took over all of Prythian, robbing the High Lords of their power and claiming both the land and its people as her own. She kept many of the High Fae and some less faeries in her bastardized Court Under the Mountain, immersed in a culture that she borrowed from the twisted and bloody history of the Night Court. 

While in exile, Thete was blissfully unaware of this reality. She caught glimpses on occasion, whispers of change from humans who were bold enough to venture above the Wall, but she assumed that such tales were heavily exaggerated. After all, mortals tend to be terribly fearful of faeries.

After the rumors of a planned rebellion reached Amarantha’s ears, the Dawn Court was heavily punished. The population was demolished. The High Lord — Thete’s father — and his family were massacred. Thete would have died, too, if she was there, but she didn’t even know about it until she felt the power click into place, felt the title fall to her, felt the silent urging of duty to return home and assume her place as High Lord of the Dawn Court. She took the long way round before staging her return, waiting for the queen to be deposed, the war to end, and some semblance of normality to resume before appearing on the palace doorstep wearing her new face and her new name and her new body.

Her return marked the day that the storms started and never stopped. 

Three years of storms. Three years of rocky transitions. Three years of postponed recovery.

Thete hears the whispers that bounce amongst the still-sparse population of her territory. They echo through the walls when no one thinks she is listening, full of prying questions, brimming with judgements on her character, and dripping with disdain for the breach in tradition that has placed a female in the enviable position of High Lord. Unless they wish to kill her, it is a reality they will eventually learn to accept, and though Thete does not care for the bulk of her current responsibilities, she has no desire to die. 

So Thete does what she must, and this evening, her  _ must _ involves sitting in her study and pretending to work while the unending rain beats upon its many windows. The study is a cozy corner room, one of her favorite in the palace, lined with comfortable chairs and rows upon rows of books. When the territory is experiencing its typical weather and not experiencing several years of unending storms, the room afforded a magnificent view of the grounds on two sides. The desk faces the orchard, which has been neglected since first Amarantha’s reign and then the rains began, and the other wall faces the river that races beyond. It flooded its banks long ago, and one of her early initiatives was a coalescing of resources and magic in order to create and reinforce new banks in order to protect the homes that sit upon it. They have to be built higher every couple of months, but for now, it is all that they can do until the world stops storming.

This evening, however, she has no pressing matters to attend to, so she spends the bulk of this time transforming an elegantly penned and overly scented letter from the High Lady of the Night Court into an intricate bird. It is a trick that she learned amongst the humans, and she was a quick learner. Fae fingers are deft and fae minds are clever, and it had not taken her long to master the skill. 

She focuses intently on the task, short blonde hair falling over the distinctly fae angles of her face as she works and green eyes alight with a bright energy that often evades her these days. She adores tinkering with things, relishes small acts of magic like the ones that she used to do to delight her human friends in the mortal realm. They bring back positive memories that have no kin in the beautiful but foreboding walls of the palace. The history that lurks within these walls is too omnipresent, too terrible to be overcome. Or, at least, it cannot be overcome while the rain lingers indefinitely and the scars of war still mark their lands and the people who live upon it. Perhaps one day, when prosperity returns and she can be truly proud to draw herself up and call herself the High Lord of the Dawn Court, she will be able to truly find joy here, but thus far, it has been an endless parade of dull, sodden obligations.

Eyes narrow as she spins the bird that she created in her hands, checking for flaws and any folds that are not crisp enough to hold up against mild scrutiny. Her name sits upon one wing, the other is occupied by a rather condescending  _ Love _ , buried somewhere in the unseen belly of the bird are lines regarding the High Lady insistence that they ought to arrange a meeting since they did not have the ‘joy’ of meeting Under the Mountain, and the stained imprint of a crimson-tinted kiss sits upon the very top of the bird’s head. Thete has no intention of replying. 

Even while living among the humans, she was painfully aware of the dark dealings of the Night Court. It is a place of tyranny and horror, ruled over by those who thirst for violence and power, and such people have no place shoving their meddling fingers into a vulnerable court that has barely recovered from Amarantha’s touch. They do not even have a proper High Lord anymore. Their previous High Lord died without living heir, and his named second assumed the mantle in his place. High Lady has never been a title recognized among the faerie courts — Thete, herself, even continues to use the title of High Lord — but this High Lady of the Night Court seems intent upon paving new ground in more ways than one.

According to Thete’s other communications, no one from any court has dared to ask the new High Lady if the magic and the power that comes alongside the title indeed fell to her in the wake of her predecessor’s death. If the magic can truly be commanded and manipulated in such a way, it has stark consequences for the rest of the courts, and it is, perhaps, safer to assume that any power and magic the High Lady possesses is intrinsically hers and the title and seat are merely that — a title and a seat. Perhaps the power had vanished without an heir to accept it. Perhaps it passed to some unknown exile in a far-off place across the sea.

Thete cradles the paper bird in her cupped hands, raises it to her lips, and blows gently upon it with a breath that glows faintly gold. It stirs in her hands. Feet tap against the sensitive skin of her palms, featherlight as they test the new territory. It tilts its head — a child gazing up at its creator — rustles its wings, and then takes flight. 

A smile rises to Thete’s lips as she watches it circle the room. 

The Dawn Court is the court of beginnings and new life and healing, and her powers echo that. Though she can not raise the dead — she has already tried — she can heal even the most lethal of wounds, revive the weary, and mimic life in otherwise lifeless objects. In war, perhaps, it would be useful. In ruling, it amounts to mere party tricks and quiet favors. It does not ease the burdens of her job or lift the burden on her already strained people. 

For a moment, she is tempted to open the window and allow the bird to fly back to wherever it first originated, but the idea dies almost immediately. The rain would destroy it before it made it past the edge of the palace grounds. Besides, even if the weather did suddenly decide to be  _ kind _ , she has no way of knowing how such a gesture might be interpreted within the Night Court. Perhaps it would be perceived as a flirtation or an act of war or both at once — neither of which she is prepared to deal with. In a war against the Night Court, the already fragile Dawn Court would be crushed, and Thete has little interest in flirtations of any sort. 

A knock taps upon the door, interrupting Thete’s blissful absence of work. 

She sinks back into her chair and swings her feet up onto the surface of the desk, ignoring the paper bird that has finally chosen to land, taking up residence upon the twisting sky blue and gold fabric that covers her shoulder. “It’s open.”

One of her advisors cracks open the door and slips inside. Given the decimated population, the reconstruction of her court suffered a distinct lack of experienced parties, however, she built an inner circle of three High Fae who seemed trustworthy, honorable, and willing to learn. She likes to think that she is a relatively decent judge of character, but the truth is that her court has yet to be truly tested. Until war and conflict fall down upon their shoulders, she has no way of knowing how effective her team could be. They are comforting, comfortable and enthusiastic, and for now, that is all she can ask of them. 

It is all she knows to ask of them. 

The Dawn Court is directionless, its High Lord is directionless, and the ceaseless rain is a plague that saps them of life and thought. 

“Evening, Yaz,” Thete says with a slow nod of her head, eyes sweeping over her friend. Yasmin is even younger than Thete — so young, in fact, that she knows that the female has had a difficult time soliciting respect from other occupants of the court, despite Thete’s constant and ringing endorsement. Yaz often pretends not to care, insists that the disrespect will inevitably fade with time and is surely not helped by the toll that the storms have taken, but Thete knows that it weighs upon her regardless. She knows better than to drag it repeatedly into conversation, but the High Lord still makes a point to offer her quiet support and compliments to right the balance. It’s shockingly easy. Yaz is bright and beautiful, even by the often lofty standards of the fae, and moreover still, she is unfailingly kind. 

Thete’s green gaze skates over painstakingly styled dark hair and brown skin that almost seems to glow in the flickering light of the study. The dark red gown that sweeps the floor is both stunning and practical, and though Thete does not gravitate towards dresses and skirts herself, she does appreciate looking at them. She appreciates looking at anything that isn’t sheets upon sheets of falling water. 

As if to punctuate the thought, lighting flickers outside the window — casting them in sickly white light for a passing instant before vanishing back into the darkness.

“That color suits you, have I mentioned?” Thete adds as she turns her attention back towards the pile of papers on her desk, attempting to look busy. 

“Thank you,” Yaz breezes as she eases the door shut behind her. The bird on Thete’s shoulder vacates its post, flitting across the room towards the visitor. A smile graces Yaz’s features as she extends a finger as a perch, only to harden back into stoicism as her eyes take in the text and the kiss that slip through its folds. “Are you ever going to answer her letters?” she asks with a distinct frown. Still supporting the bird, she takes several steps around the perimeter of the room and sinks into a green velvet armchair. 

“No,” Thete replies. Her attention skates over the paper in her hands, but upon seeing the tables of numbers, she places it back into the pile. That one looks important. She cannot form it into another paper craft creature or risk losing it by bandying it about as a prop. Her enterprising fingers flip further through the pile, eventually settling on an outdated list of estates with at least one surviving family member. She turns it over to make doubly sure that nothing lurks on the back, and begins to fold again. 

“I don’t think it seems like a good idea to antagonize the High Lady of the Night Court, do you?” Yaz’s stare burns into Thete’s back. It is a rhetorical question, but Thete answers it all the same. 

“I’m not antagonizing her; I’m just not answering. She doesn’t even know if I received the letters. For all she knows, they were intercepted by another court and never even made it here.”

“There’s only one court between us,” Yaz observes, “And they are her allies.”

Thete bristles, leaning further into her chosen defense. She does not want to engage with the Night Court in any capacity — High Lady or otherwise — and she will exploit every possible excuse in order to dodge the obligation of arranging a meeting. “In name only, and the Day Court has been known to protect its own interests. If someone asked us if we were intercepting their mail — ally or no — would you tell the truth and tell them that we were?”

Confusion traipses across Yaz’s face, and for a moment, her eyes drop away from Thete and towards the bird in her hand. “We’re not intercepting anyone’s mail.”

“For the sake of argument, pretend that we are.”

A pause lasting several beats dominates the air between them. The paper bird chirps once before hopping off of Yaz’s hand and onto the arm of the chair. Thete turns to it with a raised eyebrow. She had not known that her creations could make noise. That’s an interesting development. She does not know if her powers are getting stronger or if she has still failed to push them to their limits. Three years for mortals is a terribly long time, but for faeries, it’s a passing blink. The lordship is still new to her, as are the abilities that come with it. 

Yaz crosses her legs and puts her hand in her lap, seemingly ignorant to Thete’s sudden interest in the bird. “I would not tell them.” 

“See? Point made.”

Yaz is not willing to give up the point that easily, and she doubles down with a second question. “Is the High Lord of the Night Court not usually a Daemati? She can slip into the minds of anyone she pleases and steal whatever information she desires.” 

Thete stiffens in her chair. She had not considered the reality that the High Lord of the Night Court often carries the power to trespass upon the thoughts of others. In her mind, that is all the more reason to avoid them, and all the more reason to hope that the High Lady did not inherit the set of ancestral powers reserved for the High Lord. “We don’t know that the High Lordship passed to her.”

“We should assume that it did until we are proven otherwise. Besides, she possessed a formidable magical skillset of her own before the High Lord met his end. The Summer Court was terrified of her.” Yaz eyes turn back towards the bird as it preens its paper feathers, lips curling with amusement at the thought of an entire court being cowed by a single faerie with no ancestral seat of power.

“But was she a Daemati?” Thete abandons the paper folding and turns in her seat, eyeing her advisor with a single arched eyebrow. As it is difficult to trespass upon a powerful faerie’s mind without being noticed, Daemati tend to be well-known and the subject of both rumor and legend. The High Lady’s predecessor wielded his skillset with cruel efficacy. Thete even witnessed it once before she abandoned her court and went to live among the humans. She saw the moment in which the High Lord crushed the mind of a minor noble after extracting what he needed, leaving the faerie a quivering mess of madness. Such abilities are not subtle, no matter who the wielder, and judging by the theatrics of the letters that Thete has received on a near-fortnightly basis, the High Lady has a great interest in milking theatrics to their greatest possible extent. 

Yaz pauses with parted lips, eyes grazing the ceiling as she searches for a firm answer that might convince Thete to change her mind. She does not manage to surface with anything more steady than “I don’t know.” 

Thete sniffs and turns back to her desk. She leans over and tugs open a drawer, digging through its contents in search of a delicately carved bone with which to strengthen her folds. It takes her a moment to find it amongst the mess of half-empty inkwells and rolling pens. Though she is mentally fastidious, she has never been particularly  _ neat _ . If it was not for the intervention of her staff, she would likely go for days without remembering to bathe or change her clothes, and her study would be even more of a disaster than it already is. Indeed, there have been days when the gathered clutter has gotten so terrible that it was difficult to open the door and even harder to forge a path to the desk. Thankfully, she has improved slightly, and the maids have learned to ignore her commands to ignore this room and often slip in to straighten a few things when their High Lord is either asleep or too busy to bother with a proper telling off. 

“I think it’s unlikely,” Thete says after a lengthy pause. Not only does her evidence point towards her opinion being the correct one, but it serves her own purposes. She is willing to lean into any and all excuses that mean that she does not have to meet this female in person. The moment she hears the condescending ‘love’ that has been scribed in a multitude of letters, she does not think that she will be able to stop herself from landing a solid punch upon the High Lady’s jaw, and that would send any and all hopes at a peaceful relationship to an early grave. As she speaks, she draws the bone across the folded corners of the paper, making sure that the lines are tight and crisp before unfolding them again and setting to work on the next set of steps. 

“What are you making?” Yaz asks, question born on a weary sigh that suggests that she has no interest in further belaboring the point. 

“A squirrel,” Thete answers, turning the paper over as she begins work on the tail. 

“You’re going to amass a small army of these things, at this rate. Ryan said he found one in the library the other day. Said it was a dog or something? Wouldn’t let him get close enough to get a good look at it.” The words curl with the faint lift of a joke and a caress of genuine affection, intended to soothe whatever feathers she rustled by digging into the touchy subject of the Night Court. 

“At least then we’d have an army,” Thete says, refusing to meet the female’s tone in kind. “I’d imagine the dog is probably back to just being paper by now. The magic doesn’t last that long. I should probably go find it before someone else does…” Her voice trails off as she tries to remember which bit of information might have been contained in that particular message. Hopefully it was nothing too confidential. She tries to keep her creatures confined to her private quarters to avoid information falling into the wrong hands, but she is too inattentive for her efforts to be entirely effective. 

“The guards have a handful of new recruits, I don’t know if that message made it to you or if it already met its fate as a fish or something.” 

“I heard. That’s not the same thing. If any of the other courts turned their attention towards us, we would be doomed.”

“All the more reason to take the High Lady seriously,” Yaz insists, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands. 

Thete abandons her work and turns around again, straddling the back of her chair. She holds out an open palm and waits for the bird to flit into it. It does not hesitate, and as soon as its delicate feet hit her palm, she snaps her fingers. Life fades from the paper and it unfolds back into the letter from which it was born. There is no evidence that it spent a brief period as a living, fluttering creature — all creases vanish, pressed away beneath the demands of her power. 

Clearing her throat, Thete begins to read the message aloud:

_ Dearest Thete, High Lord of the Dawn Court,  _

_ It has come to my attention that we did not have the joy of meeting Under the Mountain, as, I expect, that it has also come to yours. It would be my honor, love, to host you for a brief audience so that we might be able to both get acquainted and work out an agreement that benefits both our interests. I have expressed this interest before, but it would seem that my letters have not reached you. How downright unusual. Do give me the dignity of a quick reply, or else I may have to resort to more extreme measures to ensure that my voice is heard. _

_ Mistreth, High Lady of the Night Court. _

Silence reigns uncontested for so long that Thete begins to grow antsy, tossing the letter back over her shoulder and tapping at the back of the chair with frantic, frenetic intensity. 

“What?” she finally demands with a pointed lack of patience, seeking to wrest Yaz’s thoughts from the quiet of her mind. “What is it?”

Yaz takes a deep breath — candlelight affectionately tracing the curves of her chest as it swells beneath the elegant drapery work on her gown. “You know what I’m going to say.”

“Say it anyway,” Thete snaps.

“Why? So you can be mad at me instead?” The advisor’s head tilts as her eyes appeal once again towards the wood that lines the ceiling, looking for answers that are not there.

“I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at her.”

“Then  _ you _ tell  _ me _ what I’m going to say instead of putting me in a position where you’re about to shoot the messenger.”

“No,” Thete leans into the word with no small amount of indignance, upper lip curling away from her teeth in disagreement. Her refusal to lend her voice to what she already knows only serves to prove Yaz’s point, and she knows that, but she can’t seem to stop herself from being contrary. 

Yaz straightens before collapsing back against the chair, breath vacating her lungs in a single huff of resignation. Thete is fully aware that she is being unfair, putting the other female in a position where she can do nothing but lose, but she also knows that her entire council is aware that there are no consequences for disagreements. No one will be forced to vacate their positions or be punished the way that they would in some of the other courts. There is merely a set of things that Thete is willing to do and a set of things that she is not willing to do, and sometimes, those lines are frustratingly blurry. 

It is a long moment before Yaz speaks. “She is fully aware that you are ignoring your letters, and you need to respond before she does something rash.” Her arms are crossed over her chest, her face and voice both deadly serious.

Thete wishes that she kept the bird around, if only to have something to look at. She can revert it to the way it was with a quick rush of power, but it is not quite the same as forming it with her own two hands. She’ll know that it is a hollow copy, and that will bother her even more than the nothingness and the thunder that rolls somewhere beyond the windows. 

Her tongue nervously wets her lips before she says, “She has nothing to gain by invading us. There’s an entire territory in her way.” 

“She doesn’t have to invade us. There’s nothing stopping her from winnowing into our territory and demanding that you meet with her.”

“We have wards.” 

“It is not all that difficult to circumvent a ward,” Yaz says with a shrug. “Amarantha did it, when she crushed us.” 

“Amarantha had captured the combined power of  _ all _ the High Lords.”

“The High Lady might also have the power of a High Lord. We don’t know, and until we do, I suggest that you behave under the assumption that she does.” 

Thete runs out of reasonable excuses. She could lean into other ideas, insist that there are a dozen other reasons that they should avoid contact with the Night Court and its High Lady at all costs, but she knows that her reasons will only grow increasingly ridiculous, and Yaz will find more and more reasonable ways by which to thwart them until she either wears her down or turns to another member of the inner circle for backup and support. 

The High Lord buries her face in her hands and lets out a single sigh, heavier than the thunder that rolls outside and the storm that carries it. It is a long, contemplative moment before she finally breathes, “Fine. But you’re writing it. Or Grayhm. Or Ryan. I have nothing to say to her.”

“You’re going to have to find something to say to her. Would you rather she met us here or we went there?” 

Images spun from tales of the Hewn City fills Thete’s mind. The Hewn City is the capital of the Night Court, a place of nightmares and violent revelry. If there are other cities in the great, sprawling, northern territory that marks the dominion of the Night Court, no one knows of them, but Thete has no reason to assume that they would be anything other than equally horrifying. 

“I would rather she come here.”

“And potentially gain intelligence on our territory?”

Thete’s hands fall away from her face. “Everyone knows our court was hit the hardest by Amarantha. It’s no great secret. If anything, it will make her realize that we’re not worth it. We have no resources, no tactical advantages.”

Yaz hesitates, a breath marking a beat of careful thought. “And the rain?” 

Thete shrugs. “If other courts do not know of the rain, then perhaps it is time they found out. Who knows? Maybe someone will know what magic caused it. I doubt the Night Court would be so kind as to offer aid, but if the whispers reach the seasonal courts…” A shrug rolls over her shoulders. “Maybe someone will care. Or maybe someone will lay claim to the curse, if it is one.” 

Lightning strikes again, throwing the room into sharp relief. 

Yaz turns her face towards the window as she asks, “Do you have a day in mind or would you like me to pick?”

“If you ask me, I’ll say never, so it’s probably best if you lot pick. Ask Graham. He keeps a schedule, doesn’t he?” 

“We all keep a schedule," Yaz corrects. 

Thete can hear the restraint in her advisor’s voice, unwilling to risk picking a fight and having Thete rescind the hard-fought compromise as a result. She could speak up, explain that Yaz doesn’t need to tiptoe around her, but under the circumstances, perhaps it is best if the people on her council harbor a small amount of fear surrounding the visit by the High Lady of the Night Court, keep them alert for any misbehavior on either side. Perhaps if they’re nervous enough, they will do most of the talking on her behalf, and she will be allowed to simply sit at the table and sulk. 

Thete waves a hand in the empty air before her. Lightning cracks again, sending its shadow dancing across the far wall like the malevolent specter of the very faerie they are discussing. “So long as someone picks a day, I don’t care who it is. Send a message to me and I’ll be careful to block it off.” She pauses for a second, teeth chewing on her bottom lip as she casts a quick glance over her shoulder at the letter that has been partially transformed into a squirrel. “And maybe mark it as important so I don’t, you know…” she trails off, allowing Yaz to infer the rest of the thought. 

There is no uncertainty between them as Yaz stands. 

A smile dances on her lips as she asks, “When I write back, would you like me to let you seal it with a kiss?” 

Confusion darkens Thete’s face as eyebrows raise and lips part. 

Yaz gestures at the letter. “She sent you one. Would you like to send one back?” 

Thete’s glare is sharp enough to kill. “No. Could you specifically request that she stop doing that?” 

“Ask her yourself when she visits. I’m sure she’ll bring it up.” Yaz vanishes through the door too quickly for Thete to mount another protestation. 

It is a long moment — marked by pouring rain and flickering candlelight — before she turns back to her desk and looks at the half-finished creature. Discussions of courtly duties managed to sap the joy out of avoiding them, and she shoves the project to the side and picks up the table of numbers that she has been avoiding. 

Might as well get something done and assume some faint semblance of a fully functioning territory before the Night Court comes calling. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sleep does not come easily to Thete. Between the incessant drumbeat of the rain and the endless worries that spiral through her skull and turn to ash on her tongue, true rest is difficult to come by. There is always something more that could be done — some unspoken fear dominating the shadows in the corner of the room — and she never quite manages to conquer it. That sensation has only doubled in potency since she agreed to meet with the High Lady of the Night Court. The Night Court deals in shadows and darkness and ambushes. In Thete’s mind, it is not entirely unreasonable to begin seeing danger in every corner. It is not paranoia if you write it off as prudence. She is being vigilant and nothing more, or so she tells herself.

However, when she begins to nod off over breakfast, vigilance is hardly a serviceable explanation.

“You’re doing it again,” Ryan observes from across the table.

When he speaks, Thete snaps her head up in alarm. Honestly, she forgot that anyone was even there. Lately, the world has been little wider than herself and the rain and the tangible fear that she has been set up for failure. “Doing what?” she asks, lancing him with a sharp glance before picking up her fork and shoving a handful of berries around the perimeter of her plate in order to look engaged.

Ryan puts down the message that he was reading and leans back in his chair, bracing his hands behind his head and swinging a single leg onto the empty chair beside him. Ryan has not embraced court finery in the way that Yaz has, rather, he tends to wear utilitarian clothes — unassuming and unadorned tunics in blues and greys that complement the deep tones of his skin. He almost always looks relaxed even though Thete _knows_ that his mind is constantly moving — just as preoccupied as hers. Ryan’s just better at hiding it. “You’re falling asleep.”

“I’m not.” Irritation rustles in her chest as she spears a single piece of strawberry and bites into it.

“You are.”

Thete glares at him, sweeping a wary eye over his posture. Like Yaz, he’s too young for the position he occupies, but Thete trusts him anyway. He’s dedicated, he takes the time to learn the names and stories of everyone who survived the war — High Fae and lesser faeries alike — and he is stubbornly devoted to calling her out when she is purposefully withholding information from them, a cycle that she’s desperately trying to break.

“I don’t sleep well,” she says after a lengthy pause, turning her eyes and attention back towards her plate.

“No one sleeps well, unless you like lightning. Graham’s got blackout curtains in his rooms. I could see if we could find you a set.”

“It’s not that.”

“The Night Court then?” Ryan asks with a slight shrug and a raised eyebrow as if he’s not at all surprised.

“I want it over with,” she says, idly chasing a blueberry with her fork. It runs away whenever she thinks she finally has it cornered, and for a fleeting moment, she’s tempted to pick it up and squash it between her fingers — a glimmer of a destructive instincts that she tries to keep well-hidden, even from her tight circle of advisors.

“Sleep’s not going to make it come any faster,” Ryan observes. “Makes it pass a good bit slower, actually.”

The High Lord bristles. “Thank you for your input. I’ll take notes.”

“Always here to help.” Ryan drops his hands with a sigh and flashes Thete a small, knowing smile before picking up his papers again, dark eyes scanning rows upon rows of handwriting.

From her current seat, Thete isn’t quite close enough to read over his shoulder, so she asks, “Any news?”

Ryan’s eyes flit up for a second before returning to the text at hand. “I’m in communication with the Priestess currently in residence at the Day Court to see if she will advocate on our behalf for aide.”

“Which one is that?”

“Clara”

Thete’s nose wrinkles. “I don’t remember her.”

“She remembers you.”

“Figures.” Thete’s shoulders fall as she slouches deeper into her chair.

“Is that a bad thing? Being remembered? Cause I hate to break it to you, _High Lord_ , but loads of people are going to remember you. Comes with the territory and all that.” Ryan lingers almost mockingly on the title, a curved smirk undercutting his words. It’s a jab made in good fun, but that does not stop Thete from placing a berry on the tines of her fork, pulling it back like a catapult, and launching it in his direction.

It is not an effective attack.

She misses him entirely, and is about to send off a second shot when the door opens.

“Morning, sunshine.” The greeting rolls of Graham’s tongue and he offers up a friendly, close-lipped smile.

Thete’s nose wrinkles. “Don’t call me that.”

“I’m not. Is a fellow not allowed to greet his grandson in these trying times?”

Graham is the oldest member of her little circle, and the only party who is of comparable age and experience to the ruling councils of the other courts. He sat on her father’s court— albeit in a far more minor position — and it is only because of Graham that Thete met Ryan at all. Before Amarantha, Graham met and married Ryan’s grandmother, and after Amarantha, the two men were the only family they had left. Their presence is a stark reminder of the scars that still mark her lands and the people who reside in them. It tempers her impulsive approach to decision-making more than any argument ever could.

“Morning, granddad,” Ryan says with a great deal less enthusiasm than that which he wielded to mock Thete mere moments ago.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Graham says, crossing the room and sliding a sloppily-opened letter onto the blank stretch of table beside Thete’s plate. “It’s from the High Lady herself. Said she’d love to see us tomorrow, provided we could be obliging enough hopes to send her the schematics of a location by which she might be able to winnow in.”

It is a reasonable enough request. In order to travel by magic and winnow, one must know both where one is coming from and where one is going. Without it, you could find yourself inside a rock — or _worse_.

Thete, however, is not naturally inclined to accommodate requests from the already-grating High Lady, no matter how reasonable they might be. She does not even pick up the new letter. She can smell the waves of perfume radiating off of the envelope from a couple feet away. The scent is so strong, that it seems a wonder that anyone could read it without growing dizzy and immediately surrendering to a faint.

“I’ll move the wards into the front hall.” She says after a moment’s thought, ripping her mind away from the cloying scent of lavender and spice. “Unless we want to make her stand in the rain.”

“Don’t imagine anyone who runs about calling themselves ‘High Lady’ would appreciate that. Plus, could be useful having her on our side, y’know. Just in case things get darker before they get lighter,” Ryan swings his foot out of the empty chair beside him and gestures for Graham to join him.

“Y’know,” Graham starts as he makes his way to the place-setting, “If she gets to run about calling herself High Lady, then what’s to stop the rest of us from making up our own titles?”

“You have a title,” Thete observes, foregoing the fork-turned-catapult entirely and picking a strawberry up with her fingers. All three members of her court are titled High Fae, and though they may not have her kind of ancestral magic, they are far from powerless.

“Yes, but what if I want a different one? Mine’s a bit dull, isn’t it? Could use a bit of sprucing up. I could come up with something that would strike terror into the hearts of our enemies.”

“We’re the Dawn Court, mate.” The ghost of a laugh plays about Ryan’s mouth. “Not exactly warmongers, are we?”

“Forgive me for setting my sights a bit higher than the rest of you.” Graham collapses into the chair with a grin and runs a hand through his silver hair. “So, Thete, you have a plan of attack for this meeting or are we flying blind? Yaz didn’t mention either way, and I have a distinct interest in making sure that we’re not going to to anything rash. If we end up facing a war on top of this Cauldron-forsaken rain, I’m going to riot.”

Thete shrugs as she swallows the last of her strawberry. “We figure out what she wants and respond accordingly, I suppose.”

Against her stubborn instincts, Thete’s fingers stray to the letter, and she eases the message from its mangled envelope. Graham is even sloppier at opening letters than she is, and that’s saying something. It is a small miracle that the paper inside managed to withstand the attack and remain intact. As she catches sight of yet another stained kiss, she scowls. Though she is horribly tempted to discard the horrible thing altogether, she dutifully scans the tight script.

The letter contains nothing of note, merely schematics and stiffly polite gratitude at the fact that the Dawn Court would be so hospitable as to open their home to a veritable stranger, but Thete’s eyes linger on the single, presumptive Dearest that precedes her name in the greeting.

“I don’t know who she thinks she is,” Thete declares, derailing the conversation and tossing the cursed thing aside and returning to picking at her side. “Does she address all the High Lords that way?”

If Thete is honest, she is more put off by the unsettling levels of interest and familiarity that the High Lady has expressed than the reality of the Night Court’s bloody past, however, she has no interest in admitting that to anyone, nonetheless Graham and Ryan. It is easier to chalk up her reticence and uncertainty to legends of endless power and the Night Court’s very real and very violent history, and most importantly, it is much, _much_ less embarrassing.

Even the thought of it brings a slight flush to her cheeks.

Ryan raises his eyebrows.

Graham shrugs. “I haven’t the foggiest, but I could poke around if you like. Might not be worth planting the idea in people’s heads that the High Lady of the Night Court has a thing for you, though. Never know what rumors might start. Or what wars. Are High Lords even allowed to marry other High Lords? That’d get messy quickly, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t think marriage is what she’s after.” Yaz’s voice enters the fray as she breezes through the doors with a folded report in hand and a ledger tucked under her arm. She’s draped in red again — a flame amongst the gentle blues and greys that surround the table. She’s always seemed to withstand the dreary mood of the rain, planting herself as a bulwark against the pervasive sorrow and allowing her friends to bathe in her light. There are times when Thete thinks that she should emulate that mood, but the necessary energy always seems to elude her grasp. There’s always something in the way — be it High Ladies or famine or a flood or the dreadful reminder of her heavy history.

“Besides,” Yaz continues, ignorant to the thoughts plaguing the High Lord. “Harkness is always fraternizing with other courts, and nobody ever says a word about him. I distinctly remember that he sent you a number of very scandalous messages upon your succession.”

“Harkness is Harkness, isn’t he?” Thete sniffs, looking over at Yaz as she pulls up another chair. All of a sudden, the table feels unbearably crowded. “And besides, he’s the High Lord of _Summer_. This is the Night Court we’re talking about.” She keeps leaning into the Night Court as her defense, but even so, she can feel it fraying beneath the force of her advisors' insistence. This is the way it was always going to go, Thete supposes. They have a pattern of behavior. Thete has a bad idea, and they talk her out of it. The realization, however, doesn't stop her from digging her heels in. She's come this far, might as well see if they'll concede a tiny bit of ground. Maybe if she fights enough, they'll step in and conduct most of the in-person diplomacy for her. At the very least, she has nothing to lose. They will stand by her side regardless of how much she argues, as their duties demand.

“All the more reason to play nice, isn’t it?” The tip of Graham’s pointer finger taps the wooden edge of the table as he speaks, driving every word home. “Biggest territory, biggest armies, biggest threat. We couldn’t even stand up to a strong wind, right now. If this High Lady of the Night Court gets testy, we’re good as doomed, and you can kiss your home and your people and all of us goodbye.”

Thete is terribly tempted to grumble about how she did just fine without the courts dominating in her life — how her time flitting about in the mortal realm was easily the best and most freeing part of her life — but she swallows it back. Such an argument would be juvenile, and even worse, it would make her look like she does not care about the well-being of her realm, which isn’t true. She cares about every individual life more than she ought to. When she moves about her lands and interacts with her subjects, she is moved by every story, every smile, every haunted gaze. For all she pretends to be a stubborn, inconsiderate, and hard-hearted individual, her heart betrays her. She is emotional, compassionate, and deeply, irreparably kind, if a bit short on social skills.

As such, the High Lord compromises with a demand spoken mostly to her half-eaten plate of food. “I want three feet between us at all times.” It is less a fear of violence and more a fear of whatever presumed intimacy follows words like _love_ and _dearest_ and _kisses_.

“I don’t think we can enforce that,” Yaz replies immediately and with an ease that suggests that she anticipated the demand. “And I am certainly not comfortable communicating that sentiment to the High Lady. I can station myself at your side and step in-between the two of you should things begin to get hairy, but that is all the promises I can make on that _particular_ front.”

“Don’t we have guards?” Thete asks, tongue preternaturally sharp.

Graham interjects, “Do you really want to put our guards on a hair-trigger like that? The wrong blade between the wrong ribs means war, Thete, and then we circle right back around to being _doomed_ , and I have no interest in dying today, thank you _very_ much.”

Graham continues to insistently tap the table as he speaks, and Ryan puts out a hand to gently stop it. When his grandfather shoots him a questioning look, he shakes his head.

“Stop doing that,” Ryan says to Graham before turning his attention back to Thete. “Look, I think what we’re all saying is that if you don’t treat her like you would treat any of the other High Lords, you’re putting yourself in a position where everyone’s at risk, including you. Sure, it’d be stupid to kill you since you don’t have a known heir that can inherit the title, but nothing’s stopping you from being a prisoner of war, and if you’re her prisoner, three feet rules go out the window.”

“I don’t want to be manipulated,” Thete snaps. With her fork, she crushes a blackberry into a pulp. So much for suppressing destructive impulses.

“We’re not asking you to let her manipulate you, just that you be _nice_ ,” Yaz adds, leaning into the word. “Play the seasoned diplomat for, what, two days? And then we can go back to jabbering about how awful the Night Court and the High Lady are when she leaves. If we’re lucky, maybe she’ll even turn out better than her predecessor. You can say what you like about the lipstick and the perfume, but it’s a damn sight nicer than waking up to a decapitated messenger dumped on your doorstep.”

Thete’s eyes roam to the ceiling. As much as she is loath to admit it, it’s true. The previous High Lord of the Night Court preferred to kill first and ask questions later, and thought that murder and violence were the most effective act of communication. He was following in the long tradition of Night Court brutality, playing into the legends that established the Night Court as a territory that ought not to be reckoned with. The High Lady may have been his protegé, his named second, and is therefore not to be trusted. Despite her presumption, she has not murdered their emissaries or directly threatened them.

 _Yet_.

Yaz crosses her arms over her chest with a sigh. “Besides, I thought we went through this all last night when you agreed to grant her an audience in the first place.”

“Not the details,” the High Lord fires back. It’s no longer a real debate; Thete’s just being defensive for the sake of it. She knows it, and all three of her friends know it. The discussion is over, Thete will be reasonable, and Yaz, Ryan, and Graham can add another tic to their tally of victories.

“We’ll handle the details,” Ryan says. “That’s what we’re here for, yeah? You handle the big picture, we execute it. You grant someone an audience, we make sure that she’s not in a position to murder you. All we need from you before then is to move a few wards, take a deep breath, and try to look presentable. You can decide to make that hard if you want to, but it has to happen either way.”

Thete stands, and her heavy chair scrapes against a floor and grates against sensitive faerie hearing. All three of her advisors flinch and grimace, and she flips short blonde hair out of her face with a huff. “I’m going to go move some wards while you lot talk about how difficult I am behind my back.”

The words are intended to bite, but Yaz smiles, bright and white and joking. “We’re more than willing to complain about you to your face, you know.”

Thete shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket — fingers brushing against the delicate silk of the lining — and disappears out of the door without another word, starting down the corridor and heading towards the front hall.

Despite their frequent disagreements, Theta likes her little circle and appreciates the advice that they give. They often come at problems from perspectives that she never considered, and though it can be difficult to reconcile outside reason with the combination of emotional instincts and stubborn pride that drives her, she would have failed her court and forfeited her position months ago. Even now, in the deliberations regarding the High Lady of the Night Court, she knows that they’re right. Perhaps that’s why she’s driven to fight harder and make a bigger fuss than she otherwise might have. She wants to feel like she has control over her life, even though her title constantly reminds her that she doesn’t.

As Thete walks, portraits of her predecessors and their families gaze down at her. She’s never liked that particular decorating choice. So far as she sees it, she thinks that portraits are best painted while the subject is looking away into nothingness, but some long-dead ancestor decided that he would prefer stare haughtily down upon the passerby, and all of the others followed in his footsteps until there was an entire line of them — ready and willing to pass judgement upon her.

No doubt none of them thought that a female would ever carry their title, nor that the court would find itself in such a precarious position, but High Lords of any court have always been prone to incurable hubris. It comes with the magic that infuses the title. Power is intoxicating, and when one knows that they are one of the seven most powerful people in Prythian, it further amplifies the effect. Even Theta finds herself flirting with the boundaries of its sway at times — ignoring the High Lady is perhaps the most recent example, but it is far from the worst. She once dismissed the entire Summer Court as hopeless interferers, and the Harkness, the High Lord of Summer, openly said that he would have declared a feud and sent her a blood ruby if he didn’t find her so amusing.

He invited her to his bed after that, but she declined. She doesn’t like the idea of getting that cozy with anyone, nonetheless a fellow High Lord. By the looks of those kisses, someone could stand to share that sentiment with the self-proclaimed High Lady, unless of course, it’s all just a part of her feminine-oriented power play. If it is, Thete would appreciate it far more if the High Lady was more direct about it. Thete’s always been untalented at political games and social engineering — she is a terrible liar and untalented at catchingthe specificities of other people’s tones— and she wants nothing less than to be outmaneuvered and painted as an idiot in her own home.

At the end of the corridor, she pauses, looking up at the imposing image of her father. He stares back the way he always has — hard, imposing, domineering, lift curled in an unshakable sneer.

The sight sends a shiver through her. Her inherited power fizzles in her blood and gold magic drips from her trembling fingertips, dissipating into nothingness before it hits the floor. Though she has seen this portrait a hundred times before, it never fails to terrify her. She was always the family disappointment — the willing renegade — and that did not bother her until her inherited power sparked in her blood and forced her to return here.

Thete walks in a set of shoes that she was never meant to wear, and she is acutely aware of how badly they fit.

She turns and flees, fighting to fill her mind with something, _anything_ else, but her thoughts are nothing but worry and the High Lady and the looming eyes of her father.


	3. Chapter 3

Thunder rolls outside of the palace in a near-constant rumble. Lightning flickers in the windows, throwing the small contingency of Dawn Court representatives into stark relief with every flash, dwarfing them even further. War and massacre left their ranks hollowed, and only the four people who constant Thete’s inner circle and a small group of guards constitute their welcoming party. There are other people elsewhere in the palace, of course. Servants and contract workers bustling about their assigned tasks, but their numbers, too, are much smaller than they once were, and Thete has never been quite so aware of how minimal her support is. The hall is large — full of soaring columns and tall stained glass windows and a set of stalwart wooden doors that require either an entire team or magic to open, and they occupy so little of it that it might as well be abandoned.

Thete has no way of knowing how large a contingency the Night Court might bringing. They could easily be outnumbered. If word has reached them about how hollowed out the Dawn Court has become, this could easily turn into an ambush.

Thete responds to the sudden discomfort of the thought by shifting her weight restlessly from foot to foot. She wants to move, wants to do something tangible, wants to run away from this dreadful place and its haunted history and leave it behind her, but she knows that she can’t. Her years of running drew to a close as soon as the power and the title fell to her. She is the High Lord, and she has a duty to help and serve her people.

The fidgeting grows more intense as time stretches onward. She reaches a hand to scratch at a hairpin that is digging into the delicate skin behind a sharply angled ear, scratches the back of one of her calves with the toe of a shoe, constantly ties and unties a silk ribbon that laces the cuffs of her tunic sleeves tight.

“Stop that,” Yaz hisses when her patience finally wears thin enough to reach a breaking point.

“They’re late,” Thete huffs, rolling her shoulders into proper posture and linking her fingers behind her back in a mockery of proper posture. “I hate it when people are late.”

“But you’re always late, though,” Ryan observes, leaning forward to peer around Yaz and raise his eyebrows at his High Lord.

“No one ever expects me to be on time, that’s the difference. You’d expect the Night Court to run on a schedule, wouldn’t you? I would. They’ve always been all about brutal efficiency, haven’t they?”

“I don’t know about efficiency,” Graham says from somewhere slightly behind them, “But if the High Lady’s a bit late, I don’t see why it’s a problem. It’s not as if we’re doing anything.”

“We’re running a territory.”

“So are they. Maybe something came up,” Yaz adds, offering up a bright but somewhat nervous smile. “Maybe there was a slight snag and they’ll be along shortly.”

“Or maybe she just wants to storm in all dramatically,” Ryan says, straightening his back and falling back to his place in their little line. “I mean, she’s the one running about calling herself a High Lady and sending you kisses and all that. Maybe she’s just building up a sense of anticipation.”

“She wouldn’t be the first one to do it,” Graham agrees. “Her predecessor was all about the lateness. Thought it made a stronger point.”

“I don’t see what the point _is_ ,” Thete says, turning her eyes towards the ceiling with a great huff of a sigh. “Unless she’s just looking to torture us.”

“I mean, could be. I’d torture you, too, if I was her.” A laugh rises beneath Yaz’s words, but a quick glare from Thete cuts it short.

The next several minutes pass amidst an awkward and suffocating quiet — not because the group of advisors is afraid to call Thete out on her behavior, but rather, because doubt is also creeping into their minds. There is a good chance that if something did, in fact, come up and the oversight is an accident, the Night Court representatives will not show their faces today. If the Dawn Court is lucky, they’ll receive a letter of apology tomorrow. If not, then minutes will lapse into hours will lapse into days of stubborn silence, languishing in the inherent rudeness of the Night Court’s refusal to acknowledge their absence.

Thete is just about ready to put her foot down and call quits on the entire endeavor, but as soon as she turns towards Yaz and with rage and condemnation scribed across her lips, the grand doors that mark the front entrance swing open with a deafening bang. A sudden gust of wind sends a wave of rainwater washing across the marble floor. On instinct, Ryan and Yaz scramble backward, Yaz scooping up her skirts in order to prevent them from being soaked. Thete, however, does not move. She stands her ground, lifts her chin, tightens the grip of the fists clenched at her side, and allows the encroaching water to consume the tan leather of her boots.

A second later, the flow abates, and a dismissive flick of the High Lord’s fingers dismisses the dampness. It’s an easy trick, and not one specific to the Dawn Court’s inherited power. Yaz drops her skirts again and takes a step forward, falling back into her place at Thete’s side as the lightning-struck silhouettes of their visitors darken the entry way.

There are seven of them — not a huge show of force, but a noticeable one — and at their head lurks a slight woman in draped entirely in black. Of the group, the High Lady is the only High Fae. Where the others are tall and muscled and winged — Illyrian, most likely, warriors from the mountains who have long been allied with the Night Court — she is noticeably slight, but no less intimidating for it.

The High Lady of the Night Court steps forward into the hall and makes a dramatic show of closing an umbrella, peering up at the ceiling as if she half-expects it to start raining in here, too. Brown curls are piled atop her head and held fast with an ornate, flowering pin in complementary shades of red and purple. Black, feathery lace clings to her chest, accenting her curves and leaving just enough detail up to the imagination, and layered skirts flow and billow in her wake like smoke and shadow. Her lips are painted in the same peculiar shade of crimson that has stained two dozen letters — bright as blood whenever the stark light of the storm dares to illuminate it.

She marks quite the contrast to Thete’s more reserved manner of dress. Where the High Lady is aggressively, performatively feminine, Thete leans into the more traditionally masculine silhouettes. Her tunic is blue, the cut conservative, marked only by ornate gold embroidery that mirrors the sun-drenched motifs of her court and a set of epaulettes that broaden her shoulders.

The Night Court has always been odd, but even by those skewed standards, this is entirely new.

The novelty of it all sends discomfort prickling beneath the surface of Thete’s skin, and it takes the entire force of her will to keep from taking a step backward and buying herself a bit of extra time to anticipate and respond to the High Lady’s approach.

“It’s raining, have you noticed?” the High Lady remarks airily. She passes her umbrella to a pointedly unremarkable member of her party and steps forward, heels clicking against the floor. “One hardly expects rain at the Dawn Court, do they?” The question bubbles and breaks rhetorically, and Thete can hear nothing but unending condescension in the words. Thete _knew_ that she wasn’t going to care for this stranger, and here she is, confirming that assumption with every small gesture and lofty word.

“We told you to winnow inside,” Thete says icily, clasping her hands behind her back and straightening her spine beneath the perceived onslaught.

“And we didn’t listen, did we?” The High Lady sniffs delicately at the air before adding, “It smells like power.”

Thete bristles, jumping directly to the assumption that the High Lady came into their Court and entered their lands solely for the purpose of mocking them. She takes a step forward, a thousand accusations sharpened and at the ready, but Yaz reaches out a hand to hold her back. Thete’s head snaps sideways, blonde hair sweeping the very top of her shoulders, only to see a minuscule shake of Yaz’s head. The lack of direct support makes her angrier, but logically, she knows that Yaz wants nothing more than to keep them all out of trouble. Thus, the High Lord reluctantly obeys, leaning back on her heels and breathing a heavy sigh of resignation.

“We’re happy to welcome you to the Dawn Court, High Lady,” Yaz says with a warm smile, providing a sense of dignity and masterful diplomacy that always seems to elude Thete herself.

The High Lady looks at Yaz sharply, eyes narrowing as she draws incredibly close to the pair. She stops only a couple feet away, bracing one hand on her hip and cocking her head sideways. “You’re not the High Lord,” she says after a long, contemplative moment. “Shouldn’t the High Lord be the one welcoming guests?”

Thete’s eyes roll skyward. “Welcome to the Dawn Court. I’m sure you’ve been here before. Also sure it hasn’t changed much.” It’s not the kindest combination of words and tone, and Yaz kicks her in the shin. Rather than stomach the pain in private and refrain from drawing attention to it, Thete instead offers up a single, painfully dry, “Ow.”

The High Lady’s attention snaps to Thete as if she is a wolf that has suddenly fixated on its prey. Or perhaps she’s kin to something worse than a wolf — one of the horrible dark creatures that lurk in the unincorporated space between Courts. Creatures older than the High Fae. Creatures who answer to no master. Creatures who haunt nightmares and would sooner flay you than listen to whatever it is that you might have to say.

“There’s something about High Lords,” the High Lady begins, stepping closer to Thete, circling delicately. The fingers on her hand curl almost like talons, as though she’s contemplating sinking them into the High Lord’s flesh. “They all sound the same. Even when they sound different, they sound the same.”

“I’ve met the other High Lords,” Thete says defensively. Some of her former posture gives way, collapsing under the demands of her armor. “They don’t sound a thing like me.”

The High Lady pouts, pretending to contemplate the thought, though the expression flits perilously close to outright mockery. “It’s quite different to be born into power than it is to fight for it. Some people brawl for scraps of power their whole lives, and yet, for the High Lords, it always seems to fall into their laps, doesn’t it? And they all justify it. Spin speeches about how they deserve it. Pen excuses for failing to use it on behalf of their own people. It’s quite old-fashioned, isn’t it?” It’s a reminder that despite the title that she has taken on and the power that she may or may not have, she did not come into power by way of the bloodline. She was named to her position before her predecessor died, or, at least, she _claims_ that she was.

Thete’s nostrils flare. The High Lady of the Night Court is close, dangerously so. Thete can smell her — lavender and spring water and a darkness that clings to the walls of ancient caves — and the warmth of her breath trickles against the sensitive skin on her cheek.

Thete ought to step back and retreat to an appropriate distance, but retreating would signal weakness and discomfort, and she is incredibly loath to allow the High Lady to latch onto that kind of vulnerability.

“Did you come to my Court just to mock me, _Mistreth_?” Thete purposefully speaks the name and not the title, reminding the High Lady that they stand on even ground. The two High Fae owe each other a certain measure of respect, but not adoration. Not fealty.

The High Lady’s eyes flick downward, surveying Thete’s body with pointed interest, taking in every detail. Her gaze lingers particularly long on the bob of Thete’s throat as she swallows, tracking the movement with unmitigated intensity. “ _Hardly_ ,” she purrs as she breaches the space between them, settling a hand on Thete’s collar and keeping the High Lord close as she presses a kiss against her cheek.

Almost immediately, Thete’s nose wrinkles. She can hear the muffled sounds of Ryan snickering into his cupped palm, and somewhere behind her, Graham coughs.

“And you can call me Missy,” the High Lady says as she steps back, lips curling in a proud smirk. “Everyone does. It’s _much_ snappier in a pinch.”

As if to punctuate the point, thunder cracks. Missy pivots on one foot, gazing up at the ceiling again, _profoundly_ interested in the peculiarities of the weather.

"Thete, Yasmin, Ryan, Graham," Thete grumbles, vaguely pointing at the members of her circle in turn. She isn't entirely sure what to do with herself. It's been a very, very long time since someone has dared to get that intimate with her -- longer than most mortal lifetimes, in fact -- and the appropriate response lies beyond her. Perhaps that had been the point. It wouldn't be the first time a member of one Court has resorted to unusual methods to rattle a member of a rival Court. 

Thete vaguely remembers an audience that she was forced to attend as a youth, when her father briefed one of his newer spies on the expectations of his position. More than one item on the list made her squirm. Thankfully, she has not had to revisit that particular line of duty. Their numbers simply aren't robust enough to support full-fledged operations within the other Courts. At the moment, they have only themselves to rely on, and Thete is stubbornly opposed to all manner of trickery and sleight of hand. 

"A pleasure, I'm sure," Missy drawls, scanning the three advisors with a degree of interest far more diminished than that with which she regarded Thete mere seconds ago. 

After a moment, she turns her eyes back to Thete, only to pull them away a second later as realization strikes.

"Ah, _Ryan_ ," she says, reaching into the top of her dress and pulling out a slightly crinkled bit of parchment and extending it in the male's direction. "This is from Clara, by the way. Thought it’d get here a smidge quicker if I carried it for her.”

Ryan's eyebrows raise as he accepts the message. "I thought she was at the Day Court." 

"She is. I popped in and said hello. We're very close," Missy says, though it seems to Thete that something buried deep within the High Lady's tone suggests that the two are not very close at all. 

Curious, Thete drops back and circles around to Ryan, intending to hover at his shoulder and read the contents of the message, but she barely has a chance to read two words before Yaz says, “High Lady —“

“ _Missy_.” The correction is both pointed and insistent, and Yaz adjusts accordingly. 

“ _Missy_ , we have a group of rooms set aside for you and your party, if you would like some time to freshen up before we convene for a meeting?”  Yaz takes a step forward, casting a sweeping gesture towards the collection of Illyrians who continue to hover near the doors. Every movement is careful and refined and beyond criticism, a degree of control that Thete could never manage, but that is why she places Yaz in charge of things. Even when operating under enormous pressure, Yaz is smart and capable. Of course, that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t sometimes make mistakes, but those mistakes are often few and far between, and they never linger in Thete’s memory for very long. 

“That sounds absolutely lovely, though the _boys_ —“ Missy does not turn around to look at them, but she tilts her head in vague acknowledgement of their presence — “mentioned that they would much prefer to be put up in town. Can’t imagine why, given the state of the weather, but if someone could plod down there with them and get them set up, I’d be much obliged.”

Thete’s eyes narrow. It is highly unusual for a High Lord to abandon their guard, especially when in enemy territory. It feels like a trick, a first step in some grand scheme, however, she cannot even begin to guess what that scheme might be. 

“I’ll do it,” Graham says, raising a hand slightly and taking a step forward. “I needed to pick up a few things anyway, and there’s a place by the river that sells incredible sandwiches. Seriously, fellas, you’ve never had anything like them.” 

He’s off before Thete has a chance to protest, and this time, when the doors open and the party steps out, there is no great wave of water threatening to drench the occupants of the hall. 

The High Lady, obviously pleased to no end, keeps her eyes on Thete, cataloguing every fidgeting moment and shift of expression with an alacrity that only serves to make her increasingly uncomfortable. 

“I can show you to your rooms, if you like,” Ryan offers, folding the letter in half and tucking it into a pocket of his jacket. 

Missy turns towards him with a sickly sweet smile. “Aren’t you sweet?” She steps forward, hands wiping imaginary dust from his shoulders before letting out an enormous sigh. “But I must insist that the High Lord do it. I simply cannot accept anyone else.” 

“No,” Thete says without thinking. 

Yaz doesn’t kick her this time, but she does shoot her a glare that suggests that they will have to have words the next time they are able to entertain some degree of privacy. 

“I can do it, if you like,” Yaz volunteers, voice bright, covering for Thete’s momentary lapse in courtesy. 

“I simply could not _stand_ to put anyone else out.” Missy turns again, steps to Thete’s side, and interlocks their arms. “And I do believe there are some things best discussed in private between a High Lady and a High Lord. You understand.”

Yaz’s warning stare as it burns into Thete’s proves that she certainly does not understand. The last time that they left Thete alone with another High Lord, she almost started a blood feud with the Summer Court. In her eyes, there is no reason why Thete should ever be trusted to conduct business with other Courts while completely unsupervised. 

For the first time today, Thete agreeswith Yaz wholeheartedly. She doesn’t trust the High Lady, doesn’t like the way in which she presses her body to hers, doesn’t like that she presumes to arrive late and then provide direction to a Court that isn’t even hers, but she also knows that refusing to cooperate might carry its own set of dreadful consequences. 

Thete untangles her arm from the High Lady’s and takes a step sideways, ignoring the feigned hurt that collapses her features. “I really can’t stay long.”

“ _Liar_ ,” Missy purrs. 

Behind the High Lady, Ryan silently mouths a one-word question. “ _Daemati_?” 

Thete ever so slightly shakes her head. If Missy was trespassing into her mind, she would be able to sense it, and besides, like most powerful people, she’s been trained to erect a wall around her mind, keeping out all those who might dare to enter it. To her knowledge, it’s still entirely intact. Whatever information Missy is operating upon, it’s not stolen from her. 

Green eyes flit to Yaz, seeking out help, but the female merely shrugs. It would seem that they’ve been collectively backed into a corner with no clear way out. The visit may not have turned into an ambush, but to Thete, it certainly feels as though they are under attack. 

“Fine,” the High Lord breathes on a weary sigh. “I’ll show you to your rooms, and we can chat. Can’t promise anything useful though. I’m notoriously unhelpful.”

Yaz sniffs her displeasure, but says nothing. 

Missy, however, lights up — eyes bright and smile gleaming in the yellow light of the room. “ _Excellent_. Shall we go?” 

Dragging her feet, shoving her hands into her pockets, and making a conscious effort to stay at least a full three feet away from the High Lady at any given time, Thete sets off, leading her out of the room and down the nearest corridor. 

As the door closes behind them, she swears that she can hear Yaz and Ryan start to laugh. 


	4. Chapter 4

Thete has the distinct sense that she is walking beside a nightmare.

There is something about the High Lady makes her skin crawl, but Thete can’t quite seem to put her finger on what it might be. It reaches beyond the fact that Missy hails from the Night Court and digs its fingers into something deeper — something that verges on the positively primal. Already, Thete finds herself fixating upon it, obsessing over it, searching for answers even though she barely has enough information to ask the right questions.

It is only a query from Missy that drags her out of that headspace long enough to prevent her from drowning in it.

“Have you noticed that your palace is rather empty?” Missy asks, tone edging on a brightly taunting song.

Thete’s shoulders stiffen. “As a court, we bore the brunt of Amarantha’s wrath. We are fortunate to have survived at all.” She keeps her eyes fixed upon the wall at the distant end of the corridor, declining to so much as glance in the High Lady’s direction. Even so, it is all she can do to keep her tone steady, forcibly guiding it away from the pain and rage that stir and fester in her chest. In kind company, discussions of the Dawn Court’s recent history are uncomfortable at _best_. In uncertain company, the feelings multiply a hundredfold.

“Ah yes, the Court of Traitors, she called you. But you weren’t here, were you? You were _somewhere else_.” Missy’s bright blue eyes burn into the side of Thete’s face — narrowed, inquiring, incredibly bold.

Thete clasps her hands behind her back, squeezing so tightly that the tips of her fingers go pale. “I was.” The words are uncharacteristically short, perched on the very edge of her fraying control. She does not wish to delve into the details of her self-imposed exile with anyone, nonetheless the leader of an enemy court.

“Living among mortals, weren’t you?”

Panic and confusion flood Thete’s consciousness and still her feet, dragging her to a halt in the middle of the corridor. Generally speaking, the High Lord keeps her time with mortals tightly bound, kept only to herself, the dead, and those who occupy her inner circle. Where the majority of the populace is concerned, she was entrusted as a ward to one of the seasonal courts in the south of Prythian. Faeries are not meant to consort in the mortal realm beyond the Wall. Such behavior violates the treaties that bind their people, and could easily be levied against her in case of a coup or uprising. There is no reason that that information should have reached rival ears.

Her mind races down the list of people who know, seeking to identify the traitor. It’s a short list, full only of people that she trusts, and the one living faerie who had born witness to the event. The thought of Graham or Yaz or Ryan betraying her is stomach-turning and beyond consideration, which leaves only a scattered handful of nobles that she keeps at an arm’s length. Perhaps it had been one of them. It’s a less upsetting idea than treason existing within the tight bounds of her inner circle, but it is still far from _comfortable_.

Missy’s momentum carries her a couple steps passed Thete’s stopping point, but when she finally pivots — the fabric of her gown swirling around her like a storm cloud — there is a smug grin plastered across her face.

“How did you know that? Who told you?” Thete asks, tone icy.

“Oh, I _guessed_.” Missy steps a little bit closer, peering up at Thete with no small amount of interest. “It’s not often the child of a High Lord vanishes from these lands. Unless they’re murdered, of course, but that hardly counts in this case, now does it?”

Thunder rolls somewhere outside — cutting through walls and rooms and shaking Thete to her very core.

So there is no traitor in her midst aside from her own quick tongue. By all rights, that should be a comfort, but instead, it stirs rage in her belly and feeds the twin fires of guilt and self-loathing. She has half a mind to cut this visit short and banish Missy and her entire consortium from her lands. As far as she is concerned, her instincts had been correct in a single pointed question and its justification. Missy is here to both gather and leverage information, and the High Lady and her court are not to be trusted.

Yaz, Ryan, and Graham should have never responded to her letters, and she most certainly should not have been invited to stay here.

Power surges, and in a breath and a heartbeat, Thete darts forward and pins Missy to the wall, knocking a portrait askew and releasing a decade’s worth of dust into the air around them. Light radiates from Thete’s skin — golden and warm and blinding. Her ancestral gifts aren’t particularly suited for combat and bouts of aggression, but when one’s control fails, magic naturally seeks out the most convenient outlet. In the case of the Day Court, it would manifest as a slight breeze, for Autumn, an open flame, but for Dawn, there’s merely a heat and a shine and the vaguest semblance of protection as her body anticipates the need to heal itself. None of that directly affects the woman she’s pressing to the wall. It is neither an appropriate threat nor an effective intimidation tactic.

There’s a knife in Thete’s belt as there almost always is. She is reminded of it as she shoves all of her weight against the High Lady, feels its sheathed blade dig into her side, but she’s not stupid enough to draw it. She is already flirting with blood feuds by pressing a forearm against the High Lady’s throat and pressing a fist into the hollow of her shoulder, and she fully expects to be met with spitting rage and declarations of war.

Instead, a hearty laugh spins from Missy’s lungs.

Thete flinches, confusion flashing across her face as she seeks to figure out what might _possibly_ be funny.

The light haloing her slowly fades away, blotted out by swirling shadows. The darkness brushes against her ankles, slithers up her legs, caresses the sensitive skin of her neck in a manner that sends a chill down her spine. Up until this very moment, no one in Prythian was entirely sure if Missy truly inherited the title — if the rules could be rewritten in a manner that ignored blood rights — but there is no longer any doubt. This is the pure, raw, tightly leashed power that the High Lords of the Night Court have always been notorious for. Summoners of darkness. Purveyors of terror.

The darkness slips across Thete’s eyes, blocking out light and sight and leaving naught but a void behind.

Her other senses — heightened though they are by High Fae blood — fail to compensate in time to anticipate and respond to Missy’s sudden movement.

There’s a scramble of leg and limb, and Thete finds herself thrown against the wall in Missy’s place. An unrelenting pressure holds her tight, and it contracts slightly as she tenses, trying to escape.

“Don’t do that.” The High Lady’s coo is far too close to her ear. “Were you trying to start a war, High Lord? You would never win. I know your numbers. I’ve seen the state your territory is in. I know you broke faith with the Summer Court, and I know that if you haven’t had a proper harvest in three years. Something about flooding, as I recall. Can’t _imagine_ why that might have happened.”

A crack of lightning and a crash of thunder punctuates her words,

“Oh wait, I think it might be _that_.” Missy makes no attempt to veil her delight. It seeps into every word — infusing and permeating each syllable with unparalleled _glee_. There are creatures in Prythian that are far older than the faeries, creatures that slipped from one world into the next at the very dawn of time. They belong to no court and answer to no High Lord, and many of them are notorious for toying with their prey before devouring them.

In this moment, Thete has the distinct sense that she is Missy’s chosen plaything.

Thete desperately wishes that she insisted that Yaz or Ryan accompany them on this little escort exercise, that there was someone in their company that might have been able to intervene _before_ she surrendered to her worst instincts. A pause stretches in the air as Thete seeks to find the words that would properly toe the line between pride and humility, soothe the hurt that she had caused without compromising her power, but as that the length of that thought stretches closer and closer towards eternity, the High Lady grows impatient.

“You’ve gone all boring all of a sudden.” The sentence is buoyed on a weighty sigh — loud, theatrical, a performance for one.

Thete’s reply is short, clipped, and inappropriately hasty. “I failed to appropriately consider the consequences of my actions.” It’s not quite an apology, but it _is_ enough for Missy to sweep the darkness away from her eyes. However, the High Lady makes no move to lessen the magic that keeps Thete pressed tightly to the wall.

It takes a few minutes for Thete eyes to adjust. The High Lady dominates her field of view, short and powerful and practically radiating a predator’s prowess, and though it no longer blocks her vision, they are still surrounded by that interminable press of darkness. It shrouds them in blackness, obscuring the rest of the corridor. Thete’s skin still shimmers lightly, but the vast majority of her body is obscured by the magic that holds her tightly in its grasp.

“Say something nice.”

It takes Thete a moment to process the words, and even then, she is almost certain that she misheard them. “I’m sorry?”

“ _Say something nice_.” There’s space between every syllable, and Thete has the distinct sense that she is poised on the sharp end of a blade. One slip might very well sever her in two. The sensation is only heightened by the simple fact that it is _enormously_ difficult to conjure compliments while under pressure, and Thete flounders for a few embarrassingly long minutes before she finally settles on: “That was an impressive display of power.”

It is far from eloquent, but Missy smiles and takes a half-step forward, tapping the center of Thete’s breastbone as the shadows fall away. A sudden sensation of weightlessness sweeps through the High Lord’s body, almost as if she has been thrown into the river that runs into her territory, and Thete nearly collapses as the pressure gives way.

Missy, however, seems not to notice the stumble. “ _Thank you_ ,” she purrs. “I almost never use it. Would you believe that there are High Lords who assume that the power failed to pass to me? It’s an incredibly rude thing to think about a High Lady, wouldn’t you say?”

Thete merely nods. Given the ferocity that Missy just displayed, it seems unwise to admit that she, too, has spent hours theorizing that the powers were lost upon the death of their previous owner.

“Did —“ Thete starts speaking, but her voice cracks, and she swallows to veil the weakness — “Did you still want to see your room?”

“That would be lovely, dear. I am positively _exhausted_.” There is no hint of the fight or the threats or the taunting in Missy’s voice, and the suddenness of that shift is somehow more jarring than the outburst itself.

With no small degree of wariness, Thete resumes the walk down the corridor, adjusting the sleeves on her tunic and the lay of her collar as she goes, and the lingering gleam of her own power dims into normalcy, leaving only a thin layer of glimmering perspiration in its wake. She declines to speak further, lest impulsiveness press her luck and once again send them into chaos, and Missy merely floats beside her, eyes scanning the portraits that line the wall.

“Did they banish you, or did you leave?” the High Lady asks once they turn the corner and the eyes of the dead no longer linger upon them.

Nervousness runs through Thete’s voice as she requests clarification. “I'm sorry, what?”

“Your family. Did they banish you?”

Thete takes a deep breath as she considers the question, and her tongue sneaks out to wet her lips. “they made it abundantly clear that I was unwelcome, so I left.”

A long, tense pause falls between them, interrupted only by a trail of footsteps against the stone floor.

“Good for you,” Missy says, tone unreadable.

Thete scoffs. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“What would you say, then?”

“That my hand was forced by circumstances beyond my control. Feels a bit more accurate. Anything else is a stretch, if I'm honest.”

Missy sniffs derisively but does not speak.

The simplicity of the exchange does not banish the tension that lingers in the wake of their little dispute, however, it does succeed in quelling the immediacy of the rage and fear that birthed it.

After half an age of silence and far too many meters of empty corridor, they finally reach the door to Missy’s appointed room. Thete turns the knob, holding it open as Missy steps past her. It is one of their better guest rooms, with an entire wall of grand, beveled windows that once gazed out upon rolling, lush meadows. Now, however, the view consists of nothing but flashes of lightning and the impenetrable haze of pouring rain. Candles flicker on the desk and in corners, providing illumination in the absence of sunlight, and the bed is both expansive and neatly made.

“You should have everything you need,” Thete says stiffly. “But if you find something lacking, feel free to ring the bell and a member of my staff will be on their way.”

Missy circles the room, running a idle finger over the surfaces as she does so. She investigates every nook and cranny, as if searching for weaknesses or vulnerabilities. Thete does not question or protest the practice, rather she simply watches, awaiting whatever criticisms might be forthcoming. She is, after all, painfully aware that their accommodations are lacking compared to those at other courts. Existing in this palace is to be constantly reminded that there was once power and glory to be found within these walls, but that the price of war was too steep to pay. 

“Close the door, dear,” Missy says upon completing her inspection of the room, turning to once again fix her chilling gaze upon Thete.

Thete’s mind slips back towards panic as she runs through a list of all the possible horrors that might spur such a request. If they had tussled so violently in the openness of the hall, where anyone might stumble upon them, she cannot imagine what fearful encounters might lurk on the wrong side of a closed door. Hesitation catches in her throat as she poses a question that she doubts will be answered,“May I ask why?”

Missy’s lips purse as she sinks onto the bed, voluminous skirts fanning around her legs, seemingly unaffected by the nerves that plague her counterpart. “Because some conversations ought to stay private, don’t you think? I’d hate to have to wipe the mind of some poor lass who took a wrong turn and wound up somewhere she’s not meant to be. It’s terribly tedious work, you know.”

Curiosity tugs a single blonde eyebrow upward. “So you are a _daemati_ , then.” That, too, has been a subject of some contention both within the Dawn Court and without it. A reality in which the High Lady of the Night Court can both summon darkness and invade the minds of others is not a particularly comforting thought, but it is far better than existing within the uncertain limbo that has so consumed them for the past couple of years, and though Thete resents the little bits of information that the Missy has so casually snatched from her own grasp, she is fascinated by how easy she bandies about valuable information about her own abilities. Surely, she must be playing some angle, leveraging intelligence in exchange for whatever goal carried her into Dawn Court territory, but it is effective in stirring Thete’s interest, drawing her a bit closer, sparking a desire to ask another string of questions and learn more.

Against her better judgement, Thete extends a foot behind her and kicks the door closed.

It slams against its frame, a sound that is shortly followed by another wave of endless thunder.

Missy smiles — an expression that toes the line between sensual and sinister — and Thete turns her eyes to the enchanted storm raging outside the windows. If she cannot see the High Lady’s expressions, then they will not be able to affect her, Thete thinks, though the shameful flush beneath her vestment and the fluttering of her heart suggests otherwise.

The High Lady wastes no time.

“Have you ever struck a bargain, High Lord?”

Thete’s mouth suddenly goes dry. Faerie bargains are deep, ancient magic the possess the power to both make and unmake empires. They’re written into the skin — sealed in ink and scars — and the penalty for breaking a bargain is certain death. They are not arrangements to be made lightly, and they are certainly not contracts meant to be entered into with a person that one only just met for the first time. When Thete lived among the mortals, she learned how the tale of faerie customs filtered through the ears and minds and hearts of those who have never seen or dealt with her kind before, the whispers that pass through humanity’s short and stilted generations —‘You mustn’t eat their food.’ ‘You mustn’t tell them your name.’ ‘The fee cannot lie.’ ‘You mustn’t bargain with them, even if your life depends on it.’ The first three ideas are ridiculous notions built upon fear, without an ounce of truth to be found in them. The fourth, however, still cuts dangerously close to reality. A bargain struck with a faerie has the power to change one’s life, and it rarely does so for the better.

“No. I haven't.”

Missy’s eyes scan every inch of Thete’s body as if searching for the evidence that must lie somewhere beneath the High Lord’s clothing. Thete, on the other hand, clenches her jaw and keeps her gaze fixed upon the window and the blurred, rain-drenched world beyond, pretending not to notice.

“I don’t believe you,” Missy says, edging once again into song.

Thete bristles, and the muscles in her jaw tighten. “It’s true.”

“I’d ask you to _prove it_ ,” the High Lady drawls, crossing one leg over the other and pointedly dragging her teeth across her lower lip, “But I doubt you’d be entirely receptive.”

Thete clasps her hands behind her back and shifts a couple steps closer to the window in which she has chosen to bury her gaze. She can see herself reflected back in the glass — all short blonde hair and sharp High Fae angles. Her face has a peculiarity that perpetually speaks to sorrow, a characteristic that she rarely sees in the faces of others, despite the fact that the Amarantha’s violent reign touched everyone in Prythian.

After a moment of quiet rainfall, a second face joins Thete’s in the glass. Missy lingers at her shoulder, scrutinizing both the reflections and the space beyond before leaning forward and fogging the glass with her breath. A slim fingertip sketches out two hearts before striking them through with a single fletched arrow.

Puzzlement wrinkles Thete’s brow.

Missy offers no explanation. “I’ll take your silence as an indication that you plan to keep your tunic on,” she says instead, turning around and moving back towards the bed. “A shame, really, though perhaps it would be rushing things a _touch_ too quickly. But no matter —“ A ghost of a shrug whispers across her shoulders as she sprawls across the blankets, kicking her feet in the air and propping her head on her hand — “I would like to propose a bargain between us.”

It is not entirely unexpected, given the way that Missy chose to open this part of the conversation, but that does not make it _welcome_. Keeping her face decidedly turned towards the window and out of the direct sightline of her guest, Thete throws out a series of bumbling obfuscations. It’s sloppy and flustered, as her obfuscations often are, but people rarely bother to call her out on them. “I am not inclined to accept one. Try not to put myself in debt to other people, generally speaking. Gets a bit sticky.”

“Why not?” Missy asks. “You have something that I want, and I have something that you want. I see no harm in forging a mutually beneficial agreement. Painless, really. Very easy not to break. I’ve done it before, see?” She inclines her head, moving a lock of hair away from the space behind her ear, which is marked with a small eye. “There’s another one, too, but it’s a bit tricky to get to in this dress. Two bargains, neither of them broken.”

Thete digs her heels in, and the hand at her side tightens into a fist. “The Dawn Court is on shaky ground, you said so yourself. I don’t have anything that you could possibly want.” Admitting one’s weakness is a poor negotiation strategy, to be sure, but she has no plans on striking any bargains with her enemies — mutually beneficial or otherwise. Bargains are a fool’s errand.

Painted lips once again stretch into that inexorable smile. “Your court has a highly strategic position, and I am greatly interested in your little rain problem.” Missy waves her free hand idly in the direction of the window, fingers trailing magic in their wake. The darkness gathers into tear drops and sinks to the bedspread with languid slowness. “But the bargain I’d like to propose is this: If you give me the pleasure of your company at the Night Court once a month, I will provide you with the protection of my forces should you need it, _and_ I’ll look into stopping your rain. My treat.”

The small furrow upon Thete’s brow deepens, thoroughly entrenching itself in her countenance. “I’m not interested in going to the _Night Court_.”

The title spins from her lips with poorly veiled contempt. The Night Court is a place populated by nightmares, a spectacle of horror and suffering, and often, those who visit it and are lucky enough to return are haunted by the things that they saw there. Besides, even if one was to discount the legends and the rumors as mere propaganda and exaggeration, allowing herself to step into enemy territory would mean providing Missy with both influence and leverage. If the High Lady can throw her off-balance in her own home, just _imagine_ what might happen in the uncharted and unfamiliar vastness of the Night Court. The very thought stirs worry.

Unbothered by Thete’s condemnation, Missy breezes onward. “It’s a teensy-tiny ask, _darling_. Just your presence in my home. You can even ignore me if you like, I won’t stop you. I would like access to your territory and your court, but I’m not asking you to sign that away, am I? It’s an easy enough decision. Your people get protection, and you lose a couple of a days a month while you mope and _languish_ and thoroughly disregard me? If nothing else, it will give you a lovely break from your precious advisors.”

Thete tears her eyes away from the rain long enough to stare at Missy with narrowed eyes. There must be something deeper to this, something that she’s missing. No faerie in Prythian — however magnanimous their claims — is naturally inclined to propose bargains that do not serve their purposes more than the other party’s. There must be a catch somewhere — some clause or trick that Thete is missing. An artfully placed word, perhaps, or a cleverly designed plan meant to unfold over the span of centuries.

“I do not make decisions without consulting my advisors first.” Insofar as claims go, it is far from true. Thete is almost entirely constructed of poorly controlled impulses, and Yaz, Graham, and Ryan spend most of their time cleaning up the High Lord’s mistakes rather than preventing them. Missy, however, doesn’t necessarily know that yet, and it provides a useful cover that buys her a bit of extra time to formulate her rejection. Perhaps Yaz will even pen something on her behalf, just to keep the declination diplomatic enough that it won’t rustle any feathers.

Much to Thete’s displeasure, the High Lady’s wicked grin lingers. “I am available to answer any questions that might arise from your discussions with them.”

With a stiff nod and a great intake of breath, Thete moves towards the door with inhuman swiftness, but Missy’s call after her is just as quick.

“You have two days, by the way. The offer expires as soon as I take my leave of this place.”

Thete declines to so much as acknowledge the time limit before she allows the door to slam shut behind her, putting a much needed barrier between herself and the High Lady.


End file.
